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52 Easter Monday Lamb cold and clotted on the bone, slaw of chopped cabbage and carrot, English tea murky with milk: this cold midday meal taken alone after a cold morning spent clearing dishes, linens; stowing silver in the dark chest, my thief’s accounting of each tine and blade. Outside, a saw whines its violence against the beam, a house carpenter begins his work again; a bird makes her racket of song, and finally the dispatch of flowers, past their trumpets of celebration, my god, the Easter flowers. ...

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